


you want it darker.

by eymelee



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Bonding Over Murder, Canon-Typical Violence, Feelings Realization, I promise, Other, Other Legends make appearences, Pre-Slash, Revenant: Am I a human? Am I a dancer?, Second POV, inner turmoil, more character study?, there's a plot though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:20:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23736004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eymelee/pseuds/eymelee
Summary: “Do you despise me for this?” you let out before you think it through.“The contrary, I am quite fond of you,” Bloodhound answers, dragging their gloved fingers down your neck.
Relationships: Bloodhound/Revenant (Apex Legends)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	you want it darker.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ExasperantMadman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExasperantMadman/gifts).



> [ Title and poem lines inspiration ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0nmHymgM7Y)

_“Vilified, crucified,_  
_In the human frame.”_

* * *

You come out of your self-imposed recovery exile when the Planetary Harvester is installed on a deserted region on Talos, for purposes unknown. The culprits? The ones that irritate your every circuit and line of code.

A few years - decades - ago, you made sure not a single soul would command you again. Hunting down each member of Hammond Robotics’ has never satisfied you, for the scientists that made you, wiped you clean over and over again, have been long gone; not by your hand, unfortunately, you have simply outlived them. 

And that hasn’t quenched your vengeance. 

You let out chunks of pent-up rage with each elaborate kill: a politician’s assassination, a massacre of warehouse workers, the disappearance of a scientist’s grandson. Sometimes, as you rest your weary metallic bones and vestigial flesh in forgotten places, you wonder how much of it there is left. It’s then you realize, there’s no end in sight to what you are doing. You can keep spilling blood for centuries ahead, it’s what soothes you after all, but for what purpose?

You want control over what controls you.

When Hammond Robotics’ name trends again, you awaken, an acute ambition dominating you. The Apex Games isn’t something you’re exactly familiar with, but after a few advertising materials and the televised kill of a sponsored competitor, you’re contained within - or so they claim.

You’re a Legend now.

You take the name of Revenant, only because Boogeyman is rejected on the spot. You are given weapons, grenades, meds, and a training ground to unleash yourself, and to subsequently put yourself together into something they call a Legend. 

A performer whom people will bet money on.

That’s their exploitative game and you play it, in the role of an obedient, lethal simulacrum, because that’s what the Syndicate and Blisk desire of you. However, you have your own devised actions, you’re only seeking the best timing. A moment for you to slip away, inflict the swift damage and return as nothing has happened. The Boogeyman was more fitting, you think.

You are given teammates, one or two, for each bloody match. It’s foreign, to collaborate with others. The other Legends shudder when you’re paired together, and that’s fine. You work better unaccompanied. 

Until you cannot pull your weight against other squads. You shoot down one enemy, two sometimes, but a third always disposes of you, low health as you are. The team they assigned you doesn’t come to help, and you can’t blame them. The Harvester, where you’re downed, is a bloodbath, squads clashing at every corner. Your vision discolors as you fade out.

It’s a suicide mission, so your team continues their looting in the pursue of a high placement.

When you’re back on the home ship, the others completely avoid you. Traversing the main floor towards your own room, someone snickers from behind and you turn so sharply, narrowing your synthetic eyes at the same time. The young engineer girl and the Holographic fool who were having a chat halt their conversation, like deer in headlights. Within a second, they scramble, mumbling apologies, and hide behind Alexander Nox, who regards you from head to toe. He doesn’t interact with you more than it’s necessary. 

You smirk and proceed confidently.

That’s exactly how you want them to feel. Afraid, apprehensive, curious at most. 

You bide your time, training with the given weapons, putting together strategies and effective teams that complement your skillset. A few other Legends do dare to stand in your presence, even offer you pointers and tips on the field. That attachment goes better with that rifle, this Hop-up reduces your weapon spread, here’s a Body Shield that levels up as long as you fire at people. Bangalore, Crypto, Wraith. You learn their code names because it makes it easier to shout at them over the comm. Gibraltar revives you in his Dome, Lifeline waves you over to loot her Care Package, Octane launches you right in the middle of the enemy team, where you wreak havoc. 

Your distant attitude doesn’t dissipate overnight. But the decades-old seams rip, one string at a time.

Until one evening, when you pass by Crypto’s room, the latter motioning you closer. You reluctantly step inside, no greeting. The hacker keeps his mouth shut as well, but points over at a holographic screen floating in front of him. 

The familiar Hammond Robotics’ uniforms are enough of a sight for the amalgamation of metal and flesh that is your body to heat up. 

You turn on your heels and descend the stairs. There’s a certain unclearness hovering over you, dictating your every step. If you had eyes, they would protrude. If you had teeth, they would bare. Your face would certainly redden if it was of flesh. With jerky movements, you exit the stationed ship.

You’re so deep into your own anger that you don’t observe the observer, watching you from behind wide goggles. 

You don’t hear their footsteps, as they follow your own.

You don’t stop nor you’re stopped. The familiar area of World’s Edge stretches in front of you, with its scorched fields and bursting lava. You drop into a stealthy crouch and approach the Harvester. Crypto’s screen showed a corridor above, probably from one of the multiple cameras installed to supervise the games, where a few men were unpacking their bags. 

You can distinguish voices and tools being used. Scientists, repairing and updating the structure, probably. You crouch-walk, hugging the wall. Your breathing is strong, inhales and exhales long-drawn-out. You are intensely focused while regarding the scene ahead, coming up with a plan, until you’re not; because you realize that you do not breathe, unlike normal beings do.

Your head snaps backwards and a hunter is in your face. 

The tracker Legend, Bloodhound. They are crouched a step behind you, body completely motionless. Their open palms are up, non-threatening, while a crimson light glints in the glass of their goggles and you understand: they are in the Beast of the Hunt. 

You stay silent but hope that the glare you offer will keep the other in place. 

Slaying another Legend outside the games to cover your tracks sounds like a terrible idea. Not when the supposed witness can hold their own in a fight - something you know well enough, from the countless times you’ve been partnered as well as fought against each other.

You might be able to kill them, but at what expense? 

A jarring clank interrupts you both. There’s a worker who is standing closer now, staring incredulously at you, wrench dropped at his feet. He doesn’t have the chance to call out for the others, for you’re already there, steel hand around his throat.

Snap, his head bent to the side.

Your firm footfall resounds in the dusk-illuminated Planetary Harvester as you move on. One of your targets screams as you loom above her, trying to defend herself. You lift her up by her coat, the Hammond logo crumpled in your fist. Your other hand drives its way into her chest.

Snap, her heart pulled apart. 

The third scientist attempts to flee, but you’re quicker. Dropping the woman’s body, your lengthy leg slides on the metallic panel, successfully tripping the escapee, the latter falling face-first. He struggles to stand, but your foot comes down on his forehead. 

Crunch, brain matter and blood everywhere. 

You don’t observe the fourth person in time because of the way you relish in killing these people. When your senses sharpen again, the last to-be victim is rapidly muttering into his comm, probably requesting help. Your time is up. They know, or will do soon enough. What must be done next? Clear up the mess, silence whoever you can and extract yourself from Talos.

An axe whirrs past you, and snap. The head of the last scientist falls and rolls on the floor, blood gushing from his body, comm silent in his palm. 

Bloodhound strides to stand next to you, regarding the gore you’ve generated together. You peek at their face, at their body, seeking any sort of reaction. It’s not simple, with all the gear they wear, but the hands-on-hips gesture is almost hilarious.  
Similar to an inconvenienced parent having to clean up the mess their children have made. 

The tracker steps ahead, smashing the forsaken comm to pieces with a heavy blow of their combat boot. They lift their axe, promptly cleaning it of blood and other liquids and hooking it in its sheath, on their back. Their calm breathing melds with the first of the night’s soft breeze, as Beast of the Hunt comes to end.

You don’t know what. To do, to believe, to anticipate.

“Do you despise me for this?” you let out before you think it through. 

Bloodhound turns, their head tilting to the side. You cling onto each gesture you can decipher, the other not a simple puzzle to solve. You scratch at the metal of your nape, a habit from one of your past lives, you’re sure. The hunter moves in front of you and scans your face. Their palm barely reaches but lays softly on your cheek. 

“The contrary, I am quite fond of you,” Bloodhound answers, dragging their gloved fingers down your neck. 

Snap, a seam inside you.

You are still under the caress. You’d swallow down your confusion if you had a throat. There’s only so much turmoil your centuries-old programming can process at once. What does one do in these situations? 

It’s shaking - you haven’t thought it possible. Your hand is trembling - humanely - as you deliberately raise and place it on top of the tracker’s, caging it. Your fingers intertwine, metal and leather. There’s nothing that angers you anymore, even so, you still burn. It’s a different kind of flame, this time, you come to realize. You don’t want to put this one out. 

You stare into Bloodhound’s goggles and you find yourself in their reflection. Which you is that, you wonder, wearing a crimson three-piece, blond hair slicked to the side, blue eyes sparkling? Was there such a _you_ before?

The crackling of a comm disturbs the moment. You’re not carrying one, but the hunter is. Their other hand presses down on it, head turning slightly to the right, listening attentively. There are a few subtle nods followed by a muffled ‘understood’.

“We must move, if we’re to receive cover for what happened here,” they speak so nonchalantly, as if they haven’t just murdered personnel in cold blood. Their hand slips away from under yours. 

You submit though, not because of some over-the-top plan you have, but because you’re so stunned that you can’t come up with anything. 

They lead and you follow, the night’s darkness engulfing you both. You pass by a surveillance camera, placed right above the entrance of the home ship. You will your fingers into a sharp blade, but your companion prevents your next destructive action.

“You mustn’t, for we cannot leave behind evidence. Trust me,” they motion ahead.

Trust is as foreign as having someone to rely on. A ruckus stirs inside you and you want to give it a voice, but Bloodhound seizes your stiff hand once again, pulling you forward through the hallways. 

Together you pass by the communal living room, devoid of anyone but a single man leaning on the back of a sofa. For a tense second, Crypto observes you both, then his eyes dart to his holographic tablet, fingers nimbly tapping on the keyboard. 

“Go on now, and keep your mouths shut,” he absently says. “If anyone asks, you’ve been in Hound’s quarters all this time. The hallway surveillance will confirm it, while the others will deny any of your involvement.” 

“Thank you, Hyeon,” Bloodhound bows their head slightly and hauls you into their room. 

You spend the remainder of the night huddled in a corner of your accomplice’s room, numerous candles illuminating your hands, which you cannot stop staring at. The hunter’s raven, Artur - the name of which you have just learned - regards you from within its brass cage, vigilant of what its master has brought but unable to reach it. 

You suppose you’re not so different from it. 

The tracker seems to notice your curiosity and unhooks the cage’s door, pulling out the bird and rubbing their thumb into its feathers. Artur croons gently, clearly delighted. They then pass it into your open palms, the raven hooking its claws on your fingers. Bloodhound sits beside you on the floor, legs crossed, their body heat warming you both. 

For once, you choose to indulge in the proximity of another.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt challenge with Revhound I did with [ExasperantMadman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExasperantMadman). You should definitely check out theirs! 
> 
> Also very much inspired by [this work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23627299), which helped me shape both Bloodhound and Revenant. Please, give it a read!


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